Calypso, Radiant One. Is there not a hint of incongruence in her title? Can something hidden shine?
The artist you have chosen tells it well; Calipso, fair and radiant sitting just outside the dark cave on a crimson blanket which spills like blood from the artery of a freshly severed heart. Odysseus, looking very herm-like, a shadow, stands surrounded by nothing but air, the sky, the clouds.
" A mind that's in the moment. Nor within myself is the life's breath in my chest made of Iron. No, it understands".
and
"I'll endure it in my chest preserving my life's breath in lasting sorrow"
are juxtaposed to tremendous contemplative effect!
There is a question of sincerity in both statements, a question of fidelity ending in compassion.
Home is where the heart is, or rather, heart is where our home is. The imperfect is our paradise, is life, with all its outrageous fortunes. We nest our hopes and dreams in the cracks and crevices of desolated shores far from the Ideal. These nests are woven in yearning and desire. where loss and absence only serve to amplify the song we are lost in.
I think it no accident that the living tongue put so little separation between the two words "heart" and "hearth". Music also has much to do with return, returning as it does again and again to a particular phrase or motif which hooks our initial attention. I often find that when listening to music, straining back and searching the musical patterns for that initial tune which caught my ear is what supplies the "genius notes" of the music and reveals the ghost in the machinery of sound. Is there anything sweeter in the experience of music than the homecoming of that "ghost", the reunion with the music proper, like, for example, Mussorgsky's grand theme marching through the Bogatyr Gates amidst the bee-loud glade of all the bells of Mother Russia ringing!
Calypso, Radiant One. Is there not a hint of incongruence in her title? Can something hidden shine?
The artist you have chosen tells it well; Calipso, fair and radiant sitting just outside the dark cave on a crimson blanket which spills like blood from the artery of a freshly severed heart. Odysseus, looking very herm-like, a shadow, stands surrounded by nothing but air, the sky, the clouds.
" A mind that's in the moment. Nor within myself is the life's breath in my chest made of Iron. No, it understands".
and
"I'll endure it in my chest preserving my life's breath in lasting sorrow"
are juxtaposed to tremendous contemplative effect!
There is a question of sincerity in both statements, a question of fidelity ending in compassion.
Home is where the heart is, or rather, heart is where our home is. The imperfect is our paradise, is life, with all its outrageous fortunes. We nest our hopes and dreams in the cracks and crevices of desolated shores far from the Ideal. These nests are woven in yearning and desire. where loss and absence only serve to amplify the song we are lost in.
I think it no accident that the living tongue put so little separation between the two words "heart" and "hearth". Music also has much to do with return, returning as it does again and again to a particular phrase or motif which hooks our initial attention. I often find that when listening to music, straining back and searching the musical patterns for that initial tune which caught my ear is what supplies the "genius notes" of the music and reveals the ghost in the machinery of sound. Is there anything sweeter in the experience of music than the homecoming of that "ghost", the reunion with the music proper, like, for example, Mussorgsky's grand theme marching through the Bogatyr Gates amidst the bee-loud glade of all the bells of Mother Russia ringing!
Brava!